


Old Nightmare

by kaylenns (reveilles)



Category: Richard Armitage - Fandom, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Compliant, Consistent with Canon, Cumbersmaug, Human Smaug, Humanized Smaug, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sexual Assault, Smauglock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-07
Updated: 2013-12-07
Packaged: 2018-01-03 21:15:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1073122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reveilles/pseuds/kaylenns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The only other person who understands Thorin's private hell is the one who always enjoys dragging him down into it. What is dragon-sickness, really?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Old Nightmare

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Brilcrist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brilcrist/gifts).



> A Hobbit short story inspired by the gorgeous "CumberSmaug" series by [brilcrist](http://brilcrist.deviantart.com/):
> 
> [](http://brilcrist.deviantart.com/art/CumberSmaug-n-Young-Thorin-364782086) [](http://brilcrist.deviantart.com/art/SmaugLock-364421511) [](http://brilcrist.deviantart.com/art/Cumbersmaug-Costume-Design-364780958) []()

A voice deep beyond measure rumbled behind him, so low that Thorin shivered.

The voice chuckled; its smile, though invisible, was no less mocking. "That is what you tell yourself, little king.  _That_  is why you shiver, yesssss..."

Thorin closed his eyes, although he knew it would do no good. He felt scales run across his back, which was nonsensical because he was shrouded in his clothing and cloak, but the sensation sent another shiver through him anyway. He would not be released from this nightmare until it was done with him; he resigned himself to enduring it. He had tried countless times before to wake himself, to no avail. He could not stop what was to come. He could only fight against it as a means of loosing his rage, unbridled by custom and company. He almost welcomed this old nightmare for that reason. Almost.

The voice chuckled again, silk now sliding over the deep rumble. "Ah, yes, loosing your  _rage_. That, and--"

Thorin opened his eyes and spun, drawing Orcrist from its scabbard and swinging it in a brutal arc that was sure to catch what he knew was slinking behind him.

Smaug swept back with an amused cry, his powerful legs pushing him just out of the reach of the heavy blade, helped by a sudden beat of his wings. They pushed a faceful of hot, sickly-sweet air, thick with the scent of dragon-sweat and spices, into Thorin, who reeled back and covered his mouth and nose with the back of his hand. He remembered this scent and it produced a wave of nausea in him. And-- He growled and repositioned Orcrist.

Smaug had landed gracefully on his feet, his claws clicking against the stone, and he settled his wings into a relaxed position with a curious smile.

"You've changed your weaponry, I see. Very pretty." He walked slowly in a circle around Thorin, still staying clear of Orcrist's reach. Thorin turned warily, holding out the blade, matching the abomination's movements. "And no Oakenshield any longer! What could have prompted you, I wonder, to give it up? And should I still call you by its name although you no longer wield it?"

Smaug paused, raising an eyebrow and waiting. Thorin snarled and focused on the feel of the hilt in his hands, the red mottling that ran along the sides of Smaug's face, and how much he would love to swing the deadly blade through those high cheekbones.

Smaug shrugged. "No matter, I shall work it out of you soon enough. So! It's been a while, hasn't it, little dwarf-king?" He grinned, unfurling his wings and stretching them lazily, as if preparing to settle in for a long while. Thorin scowled. Smaug assumed a friendly demeanour. "How are your people faring? Are they still scraping out an existence in the Blue Mountains? I hear it's lovely there this time of year."

Thorin had no wish to prolong this exchange with pointless pleasantries. He growled and lunged, the tip of the sword catching on the inside edge of Smaug's coat as the abomination leapt back again with a laugh. Then he looked down at the cloth and frowned as he took it in one clawed hand, making a disappointed sound. "Oh, bother! And I'd liked this one so much! I shall just have to see Gunalmog and have her fashion a new one." He looked up at Thorin with a smile. "Only the Balrogath have the sense to weave cloth impervious to flame. Why the rest of you fools wear your own kindling is beyond my understanding. It's almost as if you're  _begging_  to be roasted alive."

Thorin wove silently, keeping his feet moving and Orcrist firmly in his grip. Smaug sighed.

"You can't win, you know, even with that pretty new bauble. Why do you bother?"

"The satisfaction," Thorin hissed through gritted teeth, shooting Smaug a smile of his own. He tilted his chin out in challenge.

Smaug smiled slowly. "Ah yes, now I remember why I enjoy you so much. You  _do_  realise, don't you, that the more you resist, the more amusement you provide me? If you just laid back and thought of Erebor, I'd grow bored with you, likely enough."

"And give up the chance to watch you bleed?" Thorin smiled. "I don't think so."

"Perhaps if you didn't draw my blood, I wouldn't draw  _yours_ , little king. Did you ever think of that?"

Thorin made a mocking sound. They both knew Smaug would take his pleasure as he wished, however his prey tried to evade him. Smaug smiled.

"Your father just laid back and thought of Erebor at the end, you know," he said conversationally.

Thorin growled and threw himself into a low spin, angling himself at the last moment to sweep the blade upwards rather than in the flat circle that his initial movement had implied. He caught the inside of Smaug's thigh with a satisfying slice, the blade cutting into the creature's breeches and muscles and catching on nothing as it slipped smoothly through them. Smaug hissed and yanked himself away. Thorin came to a stop and crouched low, watching Smaug clutch at his leg and flap back up to alight on a ledge, out of Thorin's reach. Thorin glanced at Orcrist and smiled at the blood he saw glistening on its blade. A rivulet ran down into the Elvish script and pooled in the tiny curves.

He heard a soft hiss and looked up, realising his error too late. Smaug's clawed feet were swooping into his face; Thorin had spared an instant to revel in his victory. Foolish! He cried out and swung Orcrist, too low and too late-- He threw up an arm to cover his face, felt the iron grip close over his forearm and the claws of the other foot sink into his neck with a horrible tearing burn. He bellowed with pain.

He was shaken and dragged across the stone cavern, his feet scrabbling for purchase, the hot-sweet smell being beaten into his face in wave after wave, gagging him. He felt a smaller claw--a hand with clawed nails--dig into the wrist of the hand that still clung to Orcrist and he cried out as his fingers released the sword against his will. He crashed against the wall and a shower of sparks in blackness exploded within his skull. His legs were no help: his boots scraped uselessly against the ground. He reached up with his free hand and grabbed desperately at anything he could, hitting, tearing, punching. Miraculously, he found the wound in Smaug's leg and dug his fingers into the warm, slippery depths, pulling and tearing and doing as much damage as he could. Smaug roared and ripped his clawed foot out of Thorin's neck, then dragged Thorin's trapped arm down against the floor and stood on it. Thorin cried out and threw his body forward to avoid Smaug twisting his forearm off. Thorin grabbed a dagger from his belt as he fell and he swung it, burying it up to the hilt in Smaug's uninjured leg, the one standing on Thorin's arm. Smaug yelped and hurled himself backwards and upwards, his wings beating the air as they dragged his legs out of Thorin's reach. Thorin was freed now. His dagger still hung from Smaug's suspended leg. Smaug returned to his ledge and began to laugh in a low tone. The deep chuckling filled the cavern, echoing off the stone and vibrating into Thorin's skin. Thorin lay on his side on the ground, breathing heavily, his neck stinging and raw. He couldn't hold his head up on that side; it hurt too much when he tried. He heaved himself backwards with aching arms and slumped heavily against the wall, using it to support his head, keeping his eyes on Smaug all the while.

Thorin's wrist burned terribly, but the hand was still responsive when he tried to flex it. He had more weapons secreted about his person. He had only to wait for the abomination to try again, which it would, and too soon. Thorin dragged in painful breaths, watching Smaug inspect his wounds. He would be licking at them soon enough; Thorin had a brief respite.

"You're early," he said. "The anniversary of my grandfather's death isn't for another two cycles of the moon."

Smaug chuckled. "Yes, well, I was roused from my sleep and wanted a bit of amusement."

Thorin raised his eyebrows. The thrush had flown to the Lonely Mountain only the day before. Perhaps his fear of waking the dragon had brought this old nightmare on early.

Smaug looked up with interest. "A thrush, you say?"

Thorin frowned and cursed at himself silently. Smaug waved a dismissive hand. "Never mind with that. Tell me more of the world outside! Why would you be taking note of a thrush flying this way?" He paused as a terrible, knowing smile crept across his face. "You've come close enough to see the mountain!" He stopped working on his wounds long enough to clap with puerile joy. "What brings you so close to home, little dwarf-king? Back in the neighbourhood for one last look? Dreaming of the glory days when you were to be King Under The Mountain?"

Thorin began to sing. "Far over the Misty Mountains cold, to dungeons deep and caverns old..."

Smaug returned to his ministrations, listening, uncharacteristically quiet. From the corner of his eye, Thorin saw him begin to lick his wounds. Thorin wished that he could look away, wished that he could sing this song without being forced to watch the horror play out, again, in front of him, but Smaug would use any instant, any break in his concentration, to gain the upper hand.

Smaug chuckled, continuing his licking. He might appear to have a elf-like body, but he still moved as sinuously as a dragon, his neck bending with unnatural smoothness as his long tongue flicked out and swept gently over his wounds, which slowly closed as Thorin was forced to watch. His own wounds still bled, a warm pool gathering in the hollow of his shoulder and cooling as it spilled out and ran under his tunic. His skin itched under the blood-tracks, but Thorin would not give Smaug the satisfaction of seeing him pay any heed to his wounds.

The song ended and Smaug looked up from his licking. "Very nice," he said, red staining his lips and teeth before he ran his tongue over them. "I'd not heard that one before. Was that composed in my honour?"

Thorin glared at him, silent, as Smaug smirked and returned to his wound. He'd nearly finished sealing the deep gash on his inner thigh. Thorin watched him straighten for a moment after he had finished with it, and then Smaug fixed his gaze on Thorin and pulled the dagger out of his calf with a small smile, suppressing a flinch. He began to lick at the wound with gentle, repetitive movements, giving all appearance of relishing the experience.

Smaug paused to smirk at him. "Oh, I do!  _You_  know that."

He smiled and it sent another shiver through Thorin. Thorin growled and pulled himself up with his arms, bracing himself against the rock as he forced his legs to push him upright. Smaug would be upon him soon.

Smaug finished his work slowly, deliberately, and then flexed his calf, satisfied. He slipped off the ledge and landed on the ground in a slight crouch and then straightened in a leisurely fashion, stretching from the claws of his feet to the tips of his wings. He relaxed and rolled his shoulders and returned his eyes to Thorin, who had gained his second wind and stood watching warily. The wound in his neck was far from sealed, but the blood had ceased pouring out, at least. He flexed his hands and his shoulders and gritted his teeth against the pain, bracing himself for the next attack. He had only an assortment of daggers and axes now; Smaug had flung Orcrist across the cavern and it lay against the far wall, under his ledge.

"I already have the upper hand, you know," he observed, his claws clicking as he approached Thorin. "I  _always_  have the upper hand." He leaned in, smiling. "When I summon you here, you are at my mercy."

"Then why were  _you_  the one nursing your wounds?" Thorin sneered.

Smaug laughed. "Because you are too much of an idiot to tend to yours. Here, let me," and he leapt upon Thorin, all four clawed limbs extended.

Thorin was ready for him: as Smaug swooped down, Thorin gave a battle cry and swung out two axes in a crosswise pattern that caught Smaug's ankle between them, nearly severing it.

Smaug shrieked and sank his hand-claws into Thorin's hair, yanking his head back and twisting it viciously to the side. He sank his teeth into the exposed flesh of Thorin's neck--the side that hadn't been wounded before--and sucked greedily. Thorin staggered under the assault and fell heavily, screaming and trying to slice at Smaug with his axes, but he was blinded and maddened by the pain and Smaug managed to trap Thorin's wrists with his foot-claws. The injured foot trembled, but held. Thorin fought wildly, kicking and throwing himself about, even trying to sink his own teeth into something that came within their reach, but he encountered only cloth. He spat it out in disgust.

Smaug tore away a mouthful of flesh from Thorin's neck and spat it out as well, rising into the air. He spun suddenly in midair and clubbed Thorin viciously in the back of the head with the end of his tail. Pain blossomed and Thorin's eyes rolled back. He fought to stay conscious against the pounding in his skull, but he managed only a gray, blurry awareness. He had lost track of the passage of time. Was it only a blink, or had he lost consciousness and then revived? His neck burned terribly. His mind screamed what was coming at him and he tried to rouse himself, but his muscles were sluggish in their response.

"Oh, do be quiet," the silk rumbled above him, and he thrashed all the more. The silken rumble laughed. "You do enjoy the fight, don't you?" Thorin felt hot breath whisper over his ear and the spicy-sweet smell stung his nostrils. "That also suits me, little king. I quite enjoy it as well."

Thorin thrashed and tried to grab at something, but the voice merely tsked at him and he felt a stinging pain in the crooks of his elbows, pinning his arms to the ground.

"I can keep on with this all night. The more wounds you force me to make, the more I'll enjoy soothing them, so by all means..."

Thorin fought back the sudden urge to cry. He hated this. He hated this nightmare. He hated the way it visited him every year--sooner, this time--and he hated that he could never win. He hated how powerless and small he felt. How exposed. His cloak had been unfastened and he felt the fur being pulled back from his shoulders. A tingling, numbing strip of warmth slipped quickly over his raw and burning skin.

He had lain still for too long and he suspected that he knew the position of the target above him. He put all of his rage into a vicious stab upward with his knee and connected satisfyingly with a solid bit of flesh. Smaug squealed in surprise and then growled, twisting his claws in Thorin's elbows. Thorin arched and cried out in pain. Smaug laughed.

"I am trying to heal you, little king. Why do you resist me?" The hot breath ran into his ear again and Thorin squirmed, trying to avoid it, trying to avoid its effects. Smaug laughed again. "There is no escape, Thorin son of Thrain son of Thror, King...Under...The Mountain." Smaug amused himself with his little joke, his chuckles pushing hot air over Thorin's cheek in soft bursts. The slow slide of Smaug's tongue over Thorin's neck resumed.

The warmth and numbness  _was_  a welcome relief, but Thorin growled. "I don't want  _you_  to heal me."

"I'm all you have, here," was Smaug's smug reply. "So you might as well lie back and enjoy it...and there's no use protesting. I know you do."

Thorin tried to knee him again, but Smaug just used a beat of his wings to lift himself for a brief moment, avoiding Thorin's thrust and pulling his foot-claws out of Thorin's elbows. Before Thorin could move enough to mount an attack, Smaug dropped back down swiftly, replacing his foot-claws with his hand-claws, and then he trapped one of Thorin's legs with his strong foot-claw. A second foot-claw settled down over Thorin's other leg and he realised that more time must have passed than he had thought. Smaug's ankle was strong again; just as easily as that, Thorin's attack had been undone. He refused to sag and surrender, but he could not move any of his limbs more than an inch in any direction, and his elbows burned maddeningly with the continued presence of Smaug's claws piercing through them. Thorin moaned involuntarily.

Smaug hummed appreciatively. "There, little king. Yessss..."

Thorin growled and tried to thrash, but the tingling warmth running along his neck was so appealing, so seductive; it drew his awareness. Even the pain in his elbows seemed to draw his attention to the tongue that kept sliding, sliding, along his neck, as if his elbows yearned for nothing more than its slick touch.

His stomach turned. He hated this.

"No you don't," Smaug whispered, and Thorin gasped as Smaug's tongue flicked into his ear. It tickled, it soothed, it sent a warm jolt straight to his groin.

"No!" he ground out through gritted teeth. "Let me go!"

Smaug just chuckled and returned to the wound on the left side of Thorin's neck.

"You know," he said conversationally, between licks. "This wouldn't be nearly as effective if you'd just achieve your own release every once in a while."

Thorin's vision was clearing by now, but he squeezed his eyes shut and shivered.  _Pris_. He realised with a jolt that he hadn't thought of her since he was last in this place. She was so lost to him now that he could only recall her in this nightmare.

"It  _is_  terribly tragic," Smaug said. "Perhaps if you hadn't tried to bring her into what we share in the first place, you might still have her. I kept telling you to embrace this, not fight it."

Thorin spat in his face.

Smaug paused in his ministrations to flick his tongue up to clean off his eye and cheek. He tilted his head for a moment, regarding Thorin, and then danced his tongue along the same spot on Thorin's face. Thorin pressed his head back into the stone floor with a gasp. Smaug chuckled and returned to the wound on Thorin's left side. A few strokes later, he pulled back.

"There. How does that feel?"

Thorin frowned. There was no pain, no weakness in that spot any longer.

"Good," Smaug said, and immediately commenced licking the other side of Thorin's neck, where the deep gash from the dragon's claw still burned raw. Numbness and warmth spread there and Thorin suppressed a sigh. He tried to move his feet but they were still trapped. He stared at the blood-red cloth that hung above his face, taking note of the stitching, which was cleverly set out in a fashion that suggested curling flames. Thorin could acknowledge the fine craftsmanship even if he hated its owner. His own clothing was old and worn. The fine stitching along its edges was still there, but the threads had lost their lustre. He thought of his grandfather and the intricate patterns that had adorned his royal robes. Robes that had been buried with the dwarf-king so long ago that they must have been claimed by the earth well before now. His people were dying, all of their knowledge and craftsmanship slowly being lost as they had no place to practice their sacred arts. Tears stung at the edges of Thorin's eyes, but he drew in a deep breath and blinked them back. He shifted minutely, trying to relieve the stiffness in his back, and realised with a start that none of his weapons were pressing into him. He could feel none of their hilts, none of the comfort of their presence.

"It seemed prudent to divest you of them," Smaug said. He turned his head and nodded back at his ledge. "Don't worry, they're safely out of reach. You can thank me later."

Thorin growled.

Smaug pulled back and inspected his handiwork. "Good as new," he said, smiling benignly down at Thorin, as if he had done him a great favour. Thorin sneered, but turned his head from side to side, testing the repairs. He had to admit that Smaug had done his work well.

Smaug glanced down at his position with a thoughtful expression. His foot-claws held Thorin's legs immobile and his hand-claws each had a finger buried in one of Thorin's elbows. He carefully shifted his weight back onto his hindquarters and lifted a hand free. He grasped Thorin's wrist instead and bent to lick at the wound he had just exposed. It tickled and drove Thorin instantly mad and he tried to twist away, but Smaug's grip on his wrist just tightened. It was the wrist with the wounds already in it and Thorin cried out, forced himself to stiffen, and drew in his breath in short gasps, waiting for the tickling torture to end. This wound was small; Smaug finished with it quickly, then lifted Thorin's wrist and soothed the broken flesh there. Glancing at Thorin with a knowing smile, Smaug pinned the newly-healed arm back down and turned to repeat the process on Thorin's other elbow. Thorin squirmed again, but held himself still with an effort, even as his heart began to pound in his chest. He was trapped and even when Smaug released him, he would be no less trapped; he would be that much closer to what he dreaded. The pretence of freedom was the worst wound.

Smaug lifted his head and smiled, letting out a pleased sigh. "There! Finally. I've had quite enough of waiting, haven't you?"

He released all of Thorin's limbs at once, beating his wings in a powerful rhythm to pull himself back, and came to rest on his feet, his arms loose at his sides. He smiled down at Thorin and held out a hand to help him up.

Thorin sneered at him and ignored it, pushing himself to his feet. Not that it mattered; he wouldn't be on his feet for long. Just as long as Smaug wished him to be while he toyed with him. In unarmed hand-to-hand combat, Thorin had long ago learned that he could do very little against the dragon's toughened skin, even the parts that were not covered in scales. Smaug's exposed belly was tempting, but its pale, hairless skin was misleading. At best, Thorin could ram into him and knock the wind out of him, but as Smaug was both more agile and more patient than Thorin, it was merely another delaying tactic, and not a particularly effective one. Thorin ended bruised and exhausted, Smaug bored, and when the dragon would finally pounce on him, he would have no strength left to fight him off.

But at least he would have expended some of his rage; at least there was some satisfaction to be taken in a good, solid fight that ended in exhaustion. Thorin bent his knees, flexed his hands, and readied himself to make a run at the abomination. Smaug smiled and readied himself as well. Thorin yelled and charged. Smaug leapt and tucked his wings in close to his body, somersaulted over Thorin's running form, and landed with a sharp constellation of clicks directly behind Thorin, charging him with a yell of his own. Thorin twisted in surprise: this was a new move. Too late, he tried to grab at Smaug's arms and grapple with him, but Smaug ignored his wildly-grasping hands and slammed his own palm, hard, into Thorin's side. Thorin was already off-balance from his twisting and Smaug drove him into the stone wall in front of them. Thorin's shoulder slammed into the wall first, followed by his temple. He groaned and staggered, momentarily stunned, and Smaug grabbed his overcoat and slammed him back against the wall, leaving him gasping for air.

Thorin's legs trembled with this second blow and he started to sink. Smaug grabbed a fistful of his hair and dragged him upright, slamming the back of his head against the wall, in nearly the same spot where he'd earlier clubbed Thorin with his tail. Smaug cleaned up open wounds, but he left bruises untouched. Sparks flew in the darkness again as pain radiated through Thorin's skull and his head spun sickeningly. He gasped for breath and scrabbled for purchase on the wall and floor to relieve the painful tugging at his hair.

"Tell me, little king, why do you bother?" Smaug asked, silk and spices sliding off his tongue as he smiled at Thorin, whose vision was double at the moment. Two Smaugs slid apart and together, two vicious smiles combined into one. Thorin blinked, squinted, held onto a rock that jutted out from the wall at his side. He tried to loosen it, but to no avail.

"Really, I ask you," Smaug continued, and his smile widened horribly. Thorin stiffened and pressed his back against the wall as he felt Smaug's free hand slide down his chest and belly. He should hit the dragon, knee him,  _something_ , but he was momentarily paralysed, watching the moment happen as though he were outside himself. His mind screamed for him to fight, but his weary, dizzy body shrugged in response and then betrayed him. Smaug closed his hand over Thorin's crotch and he nodded, slowly, displaying a terrible familiarity. "It's the same every time. You're hard as a rock before I even touch you. You do this to yourself, you know."

Thorin squeezed his eyes shut and gasped as Smaug stroked him. The dragon flicked his tongue against Thorin's throat, sliding it up from the newly-healed skin to his earlobe, where he drew his tongue back into his mouth and grasped Thorin's lobe between his lips. Thorin held his breath, wishing he were anywhere else, even as his skin tingled and stung with unwanted pleasure. Smaug's soft laugh rang in his ear a moment before he felt the tickle of the tongue's tiny prongs dart inside, making him start and stiffen again with a gasp.

"Why do you resist me?" Smaug purred. "You know you want this."

"Because," Thorin ground out through gritted teeth, staring into the darkness. "I  _don't_  want this."

"No," Smaug said silkily, pulling at the lacings of Thorin's breeches. "You think you  _ought_  not to want this. There's a rather noteworthy difference."

Thorin twisted in his grip, but Smaug just tightened his fist in Thorin's hair, holding his head against the rock, and causing the tender bruise at the back to renew its smarting and pulsing with pain. Thorin blew out a short breath and closed his eyes, trying to clear his head and make a plan. His hands were free; he could just pummel the dragon's head, grab his hair and yank his head down, then lift a knee and drive it into his chin-- Smaug ran his hand down the length of Thorin's shaft, chuckling as Thorin arched his back and moaned.

"See?"

"Stop," Thorin gasped.

"Please?"

"I'll not beg," Thorin snarled.

Smaug raised an eyebrow. "You might try it: you never know how I might respond."

"Exactly like this, I imagine," Thorin snapped, opening his eyes.

Smaug laughed. "You're probably right. Still, it can't hurt, can it?"

Thorin twisted and moaned again as Smaug ran a claw gently up under Thorin's stones. Thorin sagged back and squeezed his eyes closed.

"Mmm," Smaug murmured. "I do so love this. The sounds you make."

Thorin stood still, his eyes still closed, his face as cold as the stone he was pressed against.

"Oh no...I don't think so," Smaug said, ripping through the ties at the collar of Thorin's tunic with one sharp claw. A moment later, his claws scraped across Thorin's chest, catching briefly in his hair, and then: the points of two claws pinched a nipple. He gasped and tried to twitch away, but the claws followed him, now drawing lazy circles around the sensitised nub.

Thorin opened his eyes and stared up into the inky blackness, trying to pull his mind away from his treacherous body. The cavern was illuminated by a diffuse red glow that seemed to quickly lose its strength and left the emptiness above him hidden by darkness. He had no idea how high the ceiling was, or if there even was one.

In the first years of the Exile, when Thorin had found himself in this place, Smaug's assaults had stirred up such vivid memories of Pris that Thorin could retreat into a fantasy of her. It helped him endure the nightmare. Surprisingly, Smaug had allowed this without comment, and Thorin didn't understand why until he later tried to recall her on his own, when he was alone in the night and allowed himself the weakness, and he found, to his horror, that his memories of her were now twisted up with memories of the demon in his nightmare. He could not separate them and thus he could not enjoy even his memories of her. He was eventually forced to let her go in this most intimate way and a part of his soul died as he did. He could never have her again; he could not even dream of her any longer. There was only this nightmare, fading slowly and then fresh again with new horrors each year on the anniversary of his grandfather's death. His body ached with loneliness and need, but the thought of giving it release brought with it nauseating shame, grief, and a deadness of soul that made Thorin flinch away.

And so he carried on, alone.

"Mm, yes," Smaug mused, his hand moving downward again. "Exquisite, isn't it?"

   


Bilbo hunched in the dark and cold beside Balin and tried, unsuccessfully, to suppress a yawn. Balin gave him a sympathetic smile and looked back out into the darkness. They had run out of conversation topics and as Bilbo couldn't think of another--it seemed to require too much energy--they sat silently side-by-side and stared into the night. Bilbo had learned by now that his mind played tricks on him, making orcs and wargs out of the moving shadows of tree branches dancing in the nighttime breezes. Balin and Bofur had taught him to wait and watch for repetitions in the patterns of movement. It was the out-of-ordinary movements, the things that did not match the patterns of the night, that were worth a second look. Often, those just turned into a different pattern after a moment, but one never knew. One had to be vigilant, ever-ready. It was exhausting work, staring into the dark trying to make out patterns when one was tired.

There was a strange growl, followed by a moan, to Bilbo's left, and his head snapped round immediately to stare in that direction. He tensed, ready to rise, his hand automatically moving to reassure himself of his sword at his side. He realised after a long moment that he was staring at Thorin's sleeping form, if indeed the dwarf-king ever truly slept, and he noticed that Balin had not tensed beside him. He glanced at the old dwarf and frowned. Balin shook his head and put a calming hand on his arm.

"It's nothing, laddie," he said. "Never mind him."

Thorin gave a muffled shout and then thrashed a bit before moaning again. Bilbo watched him in fascinated horror. He'd never seen anyone have a nightmare before, although he was well familiar with them, himself. Thorin kicked in a futile fashion, gasped "No!", and then gave a long, sighing moan, almost as if in pleasure. Bilbo frowned. It seemed a strange nightmare. He looked away, slightly embarrassed, and inspected his feet. What did he know of dwarves? Or of...intimacies, really? They'd never interested him in the slightest. He did his business and carried on with a minimum of fuss. Filling his hobbit-hole with a nagging wife and a bevy of children had always seemed entirely unappealing and he saw no reason to believe that would ever change.

Thorin gave a guttural cry and then moaned again, thrusting his hips in an unmistakeable fashion. Bilbo, who had been drawn back by the cry, quickly looked away. He didn't want to see this. He might have to travel, sleep, eat, bathe, and defecate in the same place as these dwarves, but he didn't want to see  _this_. Not Thorin, especially.

"Don't mind him, laddie," Balin said.

"Is this normal behavior?" Bilbo said, feeling somewhat peevish at being so rudely imposed upon. He'd not seen any of the other dwarves do this while sleeping. They were bawdy enough when they were awake.

Balin shook his head and looked away. "No." The old dwarf sighed and stared out into the darkness. Bilbo could see pain creasing his features in the moonlight. "No, it is not."

Bilbo recalled the conversation he'd overhead at Rivendell. "Is this the dragon-sickness?"

Balin shot him a quick glance in surprise and then looked at Thorin, who was thrashing again. Balin gave a tight nod and frowned at Thorin's unconscious form. "It's rare that it shows itself in this way," he said. "At least, I think it is. I've traveled with him for many years, and I've seen it only a few times. Perhaps several dozen or so."

Bilbo snorted. "That's a 'few'?"

Balin glanced at him. "When you've slept near someone for several decades, with many thousands of nights behind you, yes, that's only a few."

Bilbo frowned. "Has the sickness been getting worse?" He didn't want to face a dragon with a leader who might go mad at any moment.

Balin frowned as well. He thought for several long seconds. "No, I don't believe so. It seems to occur only rarely; it still does. There's a kind of regularity to it." His frowned deepened as he watched Thorin's abortive movements in the dark. "It seems always to occur around the same time of year; this is unusual."

"Perhaps it's just a nightmare brought on by our journey?" Bilbo suggested.

Balin looked unconvinced, but he gave a nod. "Perhaps."

"Shouldn't we try to wake him? I was always glad when Mother awakened me."

Balin shook his head. "I've tried. It's impossible. It's no normal sleep he's in. Besides," he said, turning away from his king, "he wouldn't thank you for it. He would hate the shame of knowing that you had witnessed it."

Bilbo frowned and turned away as well and they went back to staring into the darkness, trying to ignore Thorin's sighs and moans behind them. Bilbo felt terribly uncomfortable, as if he were intruding on Thorin's most private experiences, where he had no right to be. He hunched his coat more tightly around himself and tried to admire the constellations that were visible through the treetops.

   


"If only you hadn't touched the Arkenstone, eh?" Smaug murmured, his finger-claw scraping in maddeningly light circles while Thorin's body ached and tightened. "But Thror wandered in here and roused me and, well...why did you never wonder why it was called 'dragon-sickness', hmm? Not 'gold-sickness' or 'jewel-sickness' or even 'too-much-time-spent-underground-sickness'. No," he flicked his tongue again and Thorin shuddered, revulsion and arousal creating an awful, nauseating mix in his gut, even as his body shivered, hungry for more. Smaug snickered as he sank into a crouch, his hands sliding down Thorin's hips. "'Dragon-sickness.' Personally," he drew back for a moment, his tone of voice casual. "I prefer 'dwarf-surrender'."

Thorin growled and executed his earlier plan, sinking his fists into Smaug's hair and bringing up a knee to slam it into his chin. Smaug reeled back with a curse, having had almost no warning of Thorin's sudden change of thought. Thorin had let his mind wander to Pris again, remembering--or was it just imagining that he remembered?--the feel of her beard against his chest. They'd been betrothed, their public ceremony just a few short weeks away when Smaug had attacked. The betrothal was only days old; they were still learning one another, marveling at their mutual discoveries and murmuring their hopes for the future as they made love, expecting to continue the line of Durin for another ten centuries, happy to be left alone to enjoy one another, with none of the courtiers or their families to hang about and peck at them any longer. It was the first time Thorin could recall feeling entirely content in his adult life. Pris had been chosen for him, the eldest daughter of the King of the Blue Mountains, and he was not much looking forward to meeting her. What need did he have of a wife? Of course he must continue the line, but he had some years yet. His father had not wed so young, nor his grandfather, and neither dwarf saw much of his wife now. They had separate apartments, separate lives. Thorin saw more of his mother and grandmother than his sires did. He did not understand the family's urgency in making such an arrangement for him, especially without consulting him beforehand. But emissaries had been sent; they could not be recalled; the family's honour was at stake. So Thorin stood tall and ready to do his duty, scowling and impatient for the affair to be done with so that he might go back to being left alone.

He'd felt this way up until the instant that he saw her. When she'd met his eyes with the same defiant glare that he'd given her, not showing the slightest respect for his being male or being a Crown Prince, he'd been taken aback. He was not accustomed to females meeting his eyes, outside of his family, and this one had extraordinary eyes. She was fiercely clever, he soon learned, when he found himself stumbling over his words and coming off a right fool. And she was gentle, compassionate, kind, patient...and she made him laugh. He hadn't laughed in too long, not with the weight of watching his grandfather's decline and the constant vigilance required to keep the king from harming himself. Pris had been gentle with Thror but not condescending, and the old dwarf had taken an instant liking to her, earning Thorin's respect in yet another way. By the night that they were left alone in his chamber, Thorin had fallen in love with her and his earlier eagerness to be done with the whole affair had fled entirely. Instead, he found himself thinking soppy things such as how he never wanted it to end.

It was at this point in his musings that he felt Smaug begin to relax and lower his guard, becoming downright chatty, and Thorin had made his move.

Smaug clutched at his chin as his eyes watered. He spat blood on the ground, wiping at his mouth and starting to smile. "I'm not the only one with new tricks, am I?" he said. "Very clever."

Thorin's answering smile was tight. It was only a brief respite, but still.

He flinched and threw up his hands as Smaug flew at him, all of his claws extended. The dragon didn't pierce him through this time; he just flung him to the floor and pounced on him, trapping his wrists and ankles again, despite his violent attempts to thrash and throw Smaug off.

"I have had quite enough of this play," he hissed, and slammed his tail down against Thorin's exposed groin. Thorin arched and cried out and with a satisfied grin, Smaug darted his tongue into Thorin's open mouth, slipping its tingling warmth down deep into his throat. Thorin gagged and hacked and tried to scream, tried to resist the desperate urge that filled him, the knowledge that there was only one escape from this, for Smaug would not withdraw. Thorin gagged again and tried to twist his head from side to side to dislodge the tongue, but its length and flexibility were too great and all his efforts were for naught. His swallowing was reflexive and only served to work it down further into his throat as he coughed and continued to gag. He finally gave a choked roar and bit down with all his might, his teeth aching with the impact as they crashed together. If he was forced to do this, he was going to cause the abomination as much pain as he could in the doing of it.

And, as usual, Smaug heaved an enormous sigh of pleasure and lifted his head away, his eyes fluttering closed. He shut his mouth and sucked silently on his stub of a tongue for a moment, draining away the blood and sealing the wound. He let it flick out when he was finished and he licked his lips with a happy expression. " _Thank_  you! You've no idea how tedious that had become."

Thorin choked the slippery thing down, swallowing convulsively until he couldn't feel it in his throat any longer. He knew it curled in his belly and he could already feel its numbing warmth beginning to spread out from there.

"Then why don't you just bite it off yourself?" he growled, hating himself, hating the dragon, hating the moment, hating the pleasurable warmth that was starting to creep into his limbs.

Smaug curved his neck up luxuriously, twisting it from side to side, sighing with pleasure and relief.

"Because," he said, "it's so much  _better_  to let someone else do it." He smiled down at Thorin, watching as the pleasant paralysis took over his body. "And you do it so well, my little dwarf-king! Better than anyone else, in fact. I  _do_  so look forward to our little trysts." He let out another long sigh and rose up on his hind legs with a satisfied stretch. He was unconcerned about Thorin's resistance now and he had no need to be: Thorin's limbs felt heavy and sluggish. He barely had the means to roll over at this point and never would have tried, for fear of eventually suffocating with his face pressed against the rock and no ability to lift it or to open his mouth for a breath. He'd made that mistake the first time, and Smaug had let him panic in his unresponsive prison of a body, screaming himself hoarse and using up the last of his air in half a second, before lazily rolling him back over with one clawed foot and proceeding to do what he'd planned to do anyway.

Smaug beat his wings for a moment and rose, then settled back down at Thorin's hips. He reached up and unclasped the buckle of Thorin's belt with practised ease and pulled the belt apart. The buckle landed on the stone with a dull clatter. He then pushed aside the heavy fabric of Thorin's overcoat, exposing his body to the cool air. Smaug blew on him, spreading heat and spices that ran over his painfully-sensitive skin and drifted up into his nostrils. After watching him try to evade this onslaught, Smaug lowered his head with a puerile grin. "Let's finish this transaction."

Thorin stared up into the darkness. "Why bother?" he asked. "You've already had a piece of me."

Smaug lifted his head and looked at Thorin with a frown. "No I haven't," he said.

"That piece you took out of my shoulder," Thorin answered in a dead voice, his words beginning to slur.

Smaug grimaced and shivered delicately. "Ugh. I never eat meat. Dreadful texture."

Thorin closed his eyes while he still could. He could at least be spared the vision of Smaug moving over him; combined with the sensations, if Thorin were unable to close his eyes and was forced to watch, the images would play over and over in his mind for weeks afterward, every time he closed his eyes or his body tried to express its need for his attention. In fact, any rhythmic movement in his field of vision would remind him of this scene and would fill his belly with nausea. It made riding a living hell and completely killed his appetite, which weakened him and made Balin fuss over him incessantly like an old mother hen. So he closed his eyes.

He couldn't help the gasp that escaped his lips as Smaug settled down onto him, drawing him into the wet, tingling warmth of his mouth and stroking him slowly now with that stub of a tongue. The experience was maddeningly more intense than that evoked by the dragon's fully-grown tongue, for whatever substance it exuded, its effects were magnified by the sheer volume available at the root of the tongue, now exposed and bloody and in direct contact with Thorin's shaft. His mouth remained open as the final stage of the paralysis overtook him, and he was trapped in a body that fed him every sensation and responded without restraint, as it obeyed none of his mind's frantic--and eventually pleasurably resigned--commands. The automatic responses reigned and his every embarrassing moan and twitch and thrust and clench and shudder was exposed for Smaug's viewing pleasure. The dragon would pause from time to time and hum with appreciation at the involuntary display before continuing his assault, stripping Thorin of every semblance of dignity or honour or sense of self-control. It was both insanely pleasurable and chillingly awful all at once. He  _was_  ultimately at the dragon's mercy in this place, had been from the first instant he'd found himself here, and for all of his wild attacks and desperate defenses, he had always been, now was, and would always be completely powerless to change his fate.

And he would reach a height of pleasure in the midst of this horror that only served to seal this sensation of helplessness and despair into the very same core of himself that took pleasure in anything, no matter how small. Enjoyment mixed with helpless hatred and he spun sickeningly through this nightmare again, and again, and again, and again.

The only pleasure that did not mix with despair was when he saw something beautiful: something that shone or sparkled. It was in those moments that he felt hope, that he felt like he remembered what it was to smile at the mere joy of life.

And he remembered his grandfather, and he was terrified.

   


"Why do you do this?" Thorin slurred, unable--and unwilling: he hadn't rested well in  _so long_ \--to fight the relaxation that had flooded through him.

Smaug settled back beside him, draping his arms over his knees and looking satisfied and loose-limbed himself, and shrugged. The tip of his tail flicked contentedly. "To amuse myself, mostly. You're easily the most fun I've had in years."

"You must have a very dull life," Thorin said.

Smaug chuckled. "Sleeping in an ocean of gold isn't particularly trying." He looked at the claws on his hands, turning them with lazy interest, and picked at the edge of one. "It also helps to motivate you to leave me to sleep in peace. It's lovely when business and pleasure coincide." He sighed. "Speaking of business, I must get back to mine."

Thorin frowned at him in curiosity. Smaug gave a dismissive wave and returned to picking at his claw. "I'm an administrator in this realm, a mere leftenant. Tedious, I assure you."

"'This realm'?" Thorin echoed, beginning to fight against the warm relaxation that had spread through him as its hold on him slowly dissolved. "This is just a bad dream."

Smaug smirked. "Oh, not  _that_  bad, surely. But if that is how you wish to see it, my little dwarf-king, you are welcome to your illusion. You are so ashamed of this that you would never dare breathe a word of it to anyone, which is most convenient for me, as there are those who could make my life quite difficult if they learned of it." He smiled and reached for Thorin, who had begun to stir. Thorin tried to twitch away as Smaug's clawed fist closed over his shaft and stones, the squeeze at first gentle and knowing and then suddenly painful and piercing, and Thorin felt a scream tear itself from his throat as the cavern faded to blackness, with only Smaug's silken rumble echoing in his ears. "Enjoy your waking hell."

   


Thorin woke with a gasp of pain, the whole of his body aching and the memories of his wounds sore. His sudden movements made it clear to him that there was a damp, sticky mess in his breeches and he felt a wave of nausea roll over him.  _Not in the camp, not in the camp, not in the camp..._  He heaved himself wearily to his feet and stumbled away, towards the river's edge, where he managed to lurch against an overhanging tree just before losing the contents of his stomach in the moving water. Heaving until there was nothing left, he straightened, wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, and spat. He dangled his hand in the cold water to wash it, then splashed water on his face and beard. There were tears in his eyes--from the heaving--and all the blood in his face was hot on the surface of his skin. He opened his breeches and hissed as he used the cold water to scrape away at the mess. He was horribly uncomfortable but welcomed the freezing cold on his skin all the same, for it drew a sharp contrast with the sensations in his dream and forced him thoroughly back into the waking world. Closing his breeches with thick, trembling fingers, he stumbled back a few steps from the water's edge and slumped wearily to the ground. His stomach was still churning in awful flops, but his only recourse, as paltry as it was, was to put his head between his raised knees. He rocked back and forth, humming quietly to himself. He didn't want to wake the others.

A muffled sound made him raise his head, snapping it in the direction of the noise. He squinted, frowned, and suddenly caught sight of a pair of whites in the darkness, the unknown eyes sending a thrill of fear through him. His hand moved to his side, taking hold of Orcrist's hilt, and he tensed--

Bilbo stepped out, his hands raised. "Just me! It's just me."

Thorin scowled at him, but sagged back against the ground, letting go of the sword. "You should be asleep," he growled.

There was a pause and then Bilbo nodded, drawing in a short breath and looking around him. His hands drifted to his pockets. "So should you," he said.

Dwarf and hobbit regarded one another for a long moment and then Bilbo gave Thorin a tight smile. "It's my watch," he said with a curt nod. "I was just making sure you were all right."

"I'm fine," Thorin snarled.

"Mm. Yes," Bilbo said, sounding entirely unconvinced.

"Leave me."

"Just doing that."

"Good."

Bilbo regarded him for a moment and then nodded, turned, and stalked silently back towards the camp, leaving Thorin to brood alone in his waking hell.


End file.
